Arctic Wolf Chasing A Wolverine
by Karkatsbabe
Summary: 1862; Morticia Wolfden is content but not happy with her life. Her powers show that there is more waiting for her. After finding an almost dead Union Soldier, good things start to happen on her farm. But things soon take a turn for the worst and leaves James believing her dead. Morticia uses her gifts to track down the only man she's ever loved, leading to many odd people. M later.
1. Waking Up On A Farm

**1862**

The first things James noticed as he regained consciousness was that his head was pounding and that the air smelled delicious here, wherever _here_ was. After a moment he could hear a female humming, a nice and soothing sound, and the air felt colder after a moment. It was winter though, at least he remembered it being winter, so he wasn't too concerned about that.

"Nice to see you awake. Someone whacked you right good on the noggen." The woman's voice, despite using such uncaring words, had a southern lilt to it that James was sure should send his hackles rising but made him feel at ease. Her voice was sweet and low, yet it had some quality that he couldn't quite name . . . dangerous or lethal came to mind. Like a pretty flower that was actually poisonous, but you didn't know until after you plucked it and were already halfway to having your heart stopped. "I hope you feel up to eating, I made soup for lunch today. I have something else if the soup doesn't appeal to you."

"Soup's . . . soup sounds good." James opened his eyes, nearly blinded by the light coming in through the windows. He blinked rapidly, getting accustomed to the light. He saw that he was in a kitchen, on a table slightly wider than him, and positioned far from where a woman (presumably the one that had talking to him) was dishing out a bowl of something that smelled amazing.

He sat up gently, his head pounding some more before settling down. He checked all of his extremities, flexing and trying to feel if anything was wrong. He felt that this was unneeded, something in the back of his mind telling him that even if something was hacked off, except his head, it would be easily reattached or grow back. It was an odd feeling, one he didn't like too much. James got off the table, swaying when he was on solid ground, and sat down in nearby chair.

"Here, it's just a soup I feed to people with an upset stomach, chicken and pea soup." James felt pulled in by that voice, it resonated with something in him, it made him want to nuzzle her neck and have his scent wrapped around her so others would leave her alone. This floored him, metaphorically, and he sat there in stunned silence. _What in the fucking hell was **that**? _ "Oh, I forgot the spoon! Just a sec', Mister . . . "

"I'm James Howlett." That sounded like his name at least, he remembered a woman calling him James when he was sick in bed. His mother?

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Howlett." The large smile on her face pulled him in just as much, if not more than, her voice. What was it about this woman that made a part of him (wild, feral, animal, dangerous, protective, bloodthirsty) want to stay and make her smell like him? "I'm Morticia Wolfden, the owner of the farm you are currently on."

That didn't exactly tell him where he was, but it better than just thinking of this place as _here._

"Thank you for the meal, Ma'am." Thank God his mouth wasn't saying anything stupid.

"You're very welcome, Mister Howlett." She turned away from him and went back to the wood stove, hefting a heavy looking pot like it was nothing. "I've got to go give this to the workers, I'll be right back, sugar."

"Okay." And with that she was outside. James looked out the huge window, it took up at least half of the one wall, to see a long table with at least ten blacks sitting at it. Soon Morticia came into view with the big pot of soup. She put it on the table, seeming survey the group, before frowning. He saw her lips move, and could faintly hear her voice.

"Where's Alma and Lavi?"

"Miss Mora, they be finishin' goin' through the pig pens. They say they want ta make sure all the pigs still in the pen af'er they mucked i' out." said one of the older ones.

"Hmm. Ya'll go ahead and eat. I'm going to make sure those boys ain't into trouble again." There was amusement in Morticia's voice. "Lord knows that the last time they were late for a meal I had to kill a bear chasing 'em."

The group laughed as one filled a bowl and passed it down. Where had the bowls come from? They were almost the same color as the table, looked to be made of mud clay, so perhaps that's why he hadn't seen them before then.

Shaking it away, such odd thoughts, James looked down at the bowl in front of him. It was also made of mud clay, a strange contrast to the green soup. He picked up the spoon, sterling silver.

The woman owned at least twelve slaves and could afford sterling silver cutlery, but cooked her own food and used mud clay for the things she ate out of. The thought of owning slaves, _people_ , didn't sit right with James. It was apparent that she cared for them, cooking for them, worrying about them, and killing bears to save them, but he felt that _owning a person_ , no matter the skin color, was _wrong._

He pushed these thoughts away. It wasn't his problem, and he couldn't really object since it seemed she took care of them.

James looked back at the soup, not steaming anymore, and took a tentative bite. He, after burning his tongue, admitted that it settled his stomach and tasted quite good. He was halfway through with it when Morticia came back with two teenagers that were, surprisingly, not black.

This was a really weird place.

How _did_ he get here? She did say that he got hit in the head. Noggen meant head, right? Well . . . how about trying to list things he knew.

His name was James Logan Howlett. He grew up some place cold. Canada. He was from Canada? Wow, okay. Um, he had someone he could always count on, who would always find him, no matter what. Hmm. What else did he know about himself? Did he have parents? Did he have siblings? Did he ever have pets? Was born born with a silver spoon or not?

His head hurt. He was just going to focus on this soup.

* * *

.

* * *

 **Next Chapter:** How Morticia found James/Logan.


	2. Meeting A Soldier

Morticia was a simple being, with not so simple gifts. She had heightened senses, control over ice, shifted into three things (human as a the base, a black wolf, and a dark purple phoenix), her strength was that of at _least_ ten men, and she saw the future. The last one is what led her to this predicament, on the verge of tears.

The future isn't set in stone, no matter what people think or say. And even stone can be washed away with time.

Currently she was looking down at a Union soldier, one she had seen being happy on her farm with her but was now never to be, with the back of his head bashed in. She crouched next to the unnamed soldier, curling in on herself, doing her best to hold in the tears and sadness. Why did life never let her have loved ones? Was there something wrong with her? Something that just made having love of any kind be out right taken away from her?!

She was already twenty-seven, well past the age of marriage, but she had never really been happy after her family had died. She owned a farm, bought with a small drop of what she inherited, and worked on it by herself until she saw some people in the nearby town needing work. Ten acres might be a lot for one person to work, but she managed just fine, and she knew the workers didn't like her working along with them. It made them nervous. For a few reasons, one was she was practically a spinster (so there must be something wrong with her), two was that she did the work of a grown man with no problem, another was that they could tell from how she acted that she was brought up a lady and constantly expected her to be whiny/bitchy/weak/frail/delicate. So she made the meals and only worked with them if one was sick or away on family business.

Of course she took good care of her workers, they were _people_ (and she didn't fancy one of them turning against her. Been there, done that, killed the motherfuckers with glee). She housed them (simple barracks style building with plenty of room), payed them (a dollar and fifty cents a _day_ of work, quite good wage for farm workers these days), made sure that they got fed, made sure they didn't get dehydrated (was that the word she wanted? She always made they had plenty to drink in any case), and looked after the children until they started to work with their relatives.

She wasn't _happy_ with her life . . . content, maybe, but not happy. It was missing a person that was her entire universe, which used to be her mother, but now . . . Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. Maybe she was crazy? Yeah, that sounded right.

If she couldn't find _Agápe_ or _Éros,_ perhaps she should find an orphan so she could at least have _Storge_ , because she sure as Hell didn't have a friend to make her feel _Philia_. Going to church at a young age and learning Latin hadn't really helped her out look in life. Then again, maybe this century was just horrible.

"Maybe, maybe, maybe." Morticia had too many damn maybe's in her life. She was also probably crazy. A crazy virgin, didn't think she'd heard of that one before. Didn't women need to have sex at least once before they started going crazing? Guess she was an exception. A sexless exception. Laughter bubbled up again, and she let it loose this time.

She was so fucked up. A virgin that knew of the carnal sins, caring of others but had no one to actually care for, soft skin concealing murderous and bloodthirsty thoughts full of carnage and mirth.

"Crazy, crazy, crazy, insane, delusional." Morticia was slipping further, she could feel it. "Focus. Listen to the wind and feel the sun. Stay grounded."

She relaxed her breathing, calming her body and forced herself to _listen_ to nature. She felt the sun warming her skin and hair, the air moving some of her hair against her cheeks. She smelled lavender, sweet grass, gunpowder, bloo-. No, no, don't focus on that. She heard the wind rustling the tree leaves and the grass, her own slight inhalations, and something . . . faint.

. . . _thump . . . . thump . . . . thump_

A heartbeat? It was close, but so very weak. Morticia frowned as she concentrated on the sound. She listened for a few minutes and realized that the little, fluttery noise was getting stronger, and getting into a rhythm.

She opened her eyes to see the man in front of her to see the wound on the back of the soldier's head closing up.

"Like me, he's like me." She whispered softly, hopefully. A few tears escaped, but it didn't turn into the cascade that it had wanted to a moment ago. There was hope. She wouldn't be alone any more. _No more loneliness._

With a slight twist of her lips, it felt good to smile with actual happiness, she carefully picked up the man and carried him to her home. By the time she arrived it was dark, so she silently went into the kitchen, laying him on the table. She checked his head, almost fully healed. She couldn't wait for him to wake up.

"When will he wake up?" With how fast he was healing it could be in a few minutes or about lunch time. Well, in any case, she was going to sleep here with him so he wouldn't wake up alone.

With this in mind she made a pallet on the floor and covered him with a thin blanket.

She went to sleep hopeful that he would really wake up, and she would no longer feel alone.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note~**_

Sorry this has taken so long. No internet, writer's block, no time, and school were big factors on my mind.

 **I NEVER ABANDON A STORY, IT JUST TAKES A REALLY LONG TIME TO UPDATE!**


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